


The Mariner Protocol

by bauchle



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Lower Decks (Cartoon)
Genre: (theoretically), A/V shenanigans, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Canon Compliant, Dorks in Love, F/M, Four Idiots on a Spaceship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Love/Hate, Mutual Pining, Romantic Tension, Rotating POV, Set pre-S01E09, away missions gone wrong, beckett mariner: i think i will cause problems on purpose, comedy w/ some angst, fair warning: this is just a marinler fic in a tendiford trenchcoat, language warning, mariner's excellent taste in formalwear, mariner's outdated taste in music, slow dancing at holodeck prom, the inherent tension of held eye contact, will anyone learn to talk openly about their feelings? doubtful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauchle/pseuds/bauchle
Summary: AKA: Beckett Mariner's Guide to Scoring With Hot Space BabesWhen she learns that Rutherford is crushing hard on Tendi, Mariner selflessly takes it upon herself to coach him in the fine arts of courtship. She even drafts Boimler to help her out, though for some reason he's less than enthusiastic about the whole project.Cue movie nights, flirting "workshops", and 400-year-old mixtapes - not to mention melees, arguments, and maybe a minor shipwide crisis. This is definitely going to end well.
Relationships: Brad Boimler/Beckett Mariner, Sam Rutherford/D'Vana Tendi
Comments: 33
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

“Wait wait wait. Say that again?”

Rutherford looks away. “Say what again?”

But it’s too late. Mariner is leaning over the table like a salt vampirethat’s caught the scent of, well, salt. “What you just said about Tendi. I want to make sure I heard you right.”

Rather than meet her gaze, Rutherford looks out the window. The view is spectacular. That’s intentional, of course – the lounge is always placed at whichever spot in a ship’s superstructure affords the best view of the heavens. Rutherford loves to imagine what it must have been like to design a ship like the _Cerritos:_ the long weeks of deliberation, the careful notes taken by dozens of engineers peering and prodding at holographic blueprints as they calculated everything from hallway placement to turbolift speed to, yes, viewpoint vectors. It reminds him that everything in the ship is deliberate, designed _by_ people, _for_ people.

Most crew members, he notices, prefer to spend their time gazing out at the glittering sea of stars, dreaming of the strange new worlds they’re going to encounter. That’s all well and good, of course, but they ought to spare a thought for the ship itself. A ship, after all, is a miracle: a bubble of air and warmth and life, always threatening to fall apart yet somehow managing to stay intact through the deepest, emptiest reaches of space. And _he_ gets to help keep it going? He can’t imagine anything else he’d rather do.

His wistful thoughts, however, do nothing to deter Mariner’s probing stare. Next to her, Boimler shuffles in his seat, worried as always about drawing attention from the other crewmates in the lounge. “Let him live, Mariner.”

“Shut _upppp_!” she hisses, effortlessly grappling him in what Rutherford’s implant identifies as a modified Chalnoth execution grip, banned in thirty-five systems. Boimler doesn’t appear to be in pain, but real-time analysis suggests that just seventeen per cent more pressure on the back of the neck would shatter his cervical vertebrae like glass **.**

Rutherford decides it’s probably best not to inform Boimler of this fact.

“Go on, Rutherford,” Mariner urges over Boimler’s protests, “what was it, exactly?”

Mariner, of course, was the one who had kicked this all off in the first place. For the past fifteen minutes, she’d been leading a one-woman round table of ‘annoying shit our co-workers do’, where ‘co-workers’ mainly meant ‘Boimler’.

“But we’re _supposed_ to record logs after every shift. It’s regulation!” Boimler had snapped. “I get it: you hate that I do my job right. But I can’t be the _only_ one with annoying habits.”

“Well by all means, Boims, take the lead,” Mariner purred. “Who gets on _your_ nerves? And you can’t say me.”

“But you just–”

“Nuh-uh. I’m flawless. Also I’ll kick your butt if you say the wrong thing.”

Bluff called, Boimler had drummed his fingers on the table, eyes flitting over Rutherford but obviously not willing to risk offending him. Boimler is, after all, a coward – an assessment Rutherford makes without judgement, because being an ensign is a scary line of work and sometimes missions get so stressful that afterwards Rutherford has to spend all night under a console, listening to the circuit boards sizzle, just to calm down.

Eventually Boimler’s gaze had settled on the seat Tendi vacated just a minute before to retrieve another margarita, and he’d ventured, “Tendi does this… thing… when she’s excited.”

“You mean the squeal?” Mariner put in. “Mm, actually, you might be on to something there.”

Confidence bolstered, Boimler let the words spill out all at once: “I don’t want to be mean, it’s just that, sometimes… Okay, last week, I was in my bunk, reading a report and minding my own business, and then – _bam!_ It was like a kitten singing Klingon opera. It made me drop my PADD! Apparently she’d just learned what a vulture is and was going around showing everybody how ‘cute’ they are.”

Rutherford remembers that day. It was the day he learned that Starfleet databanks had many, many more pictures of vultures than anyone could ever need – anyone except Tendi, that is.

“Yeah, yeah, I totally feel you,” Mariner had added. “It’s like, girl, you’re the light of my life, I _love_ your enthusiasm, but take a breath, maybe?”

And then Rutherford had said… well. He knows exactly what he said – his implant, after all, offers playback of every conversation he’s had in the past six hours. Apparently Vulcans value reproducibility in all things, even small talk. Rutherford mainly finds it an excellent way to spend even _more_ time obsessing over the words he should never have allowed to exit his mouth.

It’s one such collection of words that’s haunting him now. Mariner is _still_ watching him expectantly, showing no signs of backing down. He decides to play it cool, realizes that he’s never actually figured out what “cool” looks like, and settles for taking an overlong sip of his cocktail and stretching his arms across the back of the booth as he repeats with exaggerated casualness, “I said I thought it was kind of cute.”

“That was it!” Mariner releases Boimler and beams at Rutherford **.** It’s not a reassuring smile – more like a leopard flashing its teeth. “And then you said something else, right?”

Rutherford fiddles with his straw. “No…?”

“Yeah, pretty sure you did. Something about her voice?”

“I, um… I might have said, uh, _thatshehasanicevoicemaybe…_ ”

Then Mariner’s cupping his cheeks in both hands like he’s a big, anxious puppy. “Samanthan Rutherford,” she says very seriously, “Do you have the hots for our one and only D’Vana Tendi?”

“What? No!” Rutherford protests, squirming loose. Now _he’s_ the one worried about drawing attention.

“Aah, you totally do! Oh my god, that’s _incredible!”_

“Come on, Mariner,” Boimler sighs, “Leave him alone. Just because he has a crush on Tendi–”

“I don’t!” Rutherford interjects.

“–doesn’t mean we have to gossip about it like a bunch of Academy freshmen. You’re hardly one to talk, anyway. Didn’t you spend, like, the whole week after Tendi got here going on about how hot she was?”

“What can I say? I have great taste. And apparently, so does Rutherford.” She shoots him a wink. “Don’t worry, bud. I won’t get in your way.”

Rutherford is embarrassed by how relieved he is to hear that, because he’s pretty sure she could nab Tendi in an instant if she really wanted to. It’s difficult to imagine anyone saying ‘no’ to Beckett Mariner, for any reason. He has no idea how Boimler does it.

“This really is amazing,” Mariner continues. “I legit could not figure out what was going on between you two! I mean, you spend _hours_ together in the tubes–”

(Here she wiggles her eyebrows in a way that stresses Rutherford out to no end. Boimler looks like he would rather be court-martialed than continue to be party to this conversation.)

“–but you were always so chill in public! And eventually I assumed you had to just be friends, because with Starfleet couples, even the ones that try to keep it secret, you can just _tell,_ y’know?”

“No, I don’t know,” says Rutherford, more sharply than he’d intended. This was not how he wanted to address this. This was not something he was sure he wanted to address at all. He slumps so low his chin hits the table. “I don’t know anything, really.”

“Oh, don’t say that, dude!” Mariner gasps. For the first time she seems to genuinely soften. “You’re a catch! You landed a date with Barnes that one time, and she’s the hottest person on the bridge by a mile–”

“I _know_ I’m not hearing you rank the bridge officers by attractiveness,” Boimler grouses, “because that would be unthinkably unprofessional…”

“And _I_ know a friend in need when I see one,” retorts Mariner. “Listen, Rutherford, I’ll even give you some pointers if you want! No one knows the ladies better than Beckett Mariner. It’s high time I passed on my hard-earned wisdom to some naive, deserving sap like you.”

“I thought _I_ was your mentee,” says Boimler. His tone reads forty per cent pettier than usual – and the pettiness tolerances for Boimler are set high to begin with.

For once Mariner seems momentarily wrong-footed, but she soon rebuts, “Of course I’m your _professional_ mentor, Boims, but I have multiple talents. And right now, what Rutherford clearly needs is some guidance in the fine pursuits of courtship and _love.”_ She extends her hand across the table. “We’re in this together, man. I’m making it a _project._ What do you say? _”_

Every word out of her mouth makes another drop of sweat bead on Rutherford’s forehead. “Well, at this stage ‘love’ is probably too strong a–”

And then Mariner’s pressing a finger to his mouth. “Shhht, she’s coming! Okay, first tip: you gotta lay some groundwork to impress her. When she gets back, mention how you heard a rumor that Billups is looking at you for a promotion.”

Rutherford’s brain jumps rails for a second. “He is? Oh man, that’s amazing! He’s such a skilled engineer, I never imagined he’d pick _me–”_

“He’s not,” Mariner breaks in. “You’re just saying that to look good.”

Even after setting aside the crushing disappointment, Rutherford doesn’t like the sound of this. “You mean _lie_ to her?”

“More like fudging! I mean, you’re great at your job anyway, Billups would be an idiot not to consider you, right?

“But–”

“Hey guys!” says Tendi, sliding in next to Rutherford like she’d never left. “What are we talking about?”

He stammers, not sure what to say. Mariner repeatedly twitches her head in Tendi’s direction. Discarding the remote (though with Mariner, not _that_ remote) possibility of mental breakdown, it’s clear she’s urging him to follow through. Steeling his courage, Rutherford turns his organic eye toward Tendi, and explains that…

“We were talking about vultures.”

“I _LOVE_ vultures _!”_ Tendi squeals. And yeah, wow, she’s got some pipes on her. The frequency reading from his implant is… not flattering. But somehow, all Rutherford can do is smile as she continues, “Did you know they have bald heads so they don’t get viscera in their feathers when they feed? They’re so sanitary! Really, if birds were people, vultures would be the doctors...”

Mariner scowls and rolls her eyes, but Rutherford ignores her in favor of keeping his focus on Tendi, who’s still profoundly animated and, he realizes for precisely the eighty-third time this week, absurdly cute.

He doesn’t _want_ to feel this way about Tendi. He has three close friends on the _Cerritos,_ all of whom are sitting at this table, and of them Tendi is the only one who actually _gets_ Rutherford. Boimler and Mariner are both basically decent people and exciting to hang out with, but they’re each wrapped up in their own dueling worlds of neurotic self-consciousness and being thirty seconds away from punching anything that pisses her off, respectively. They’re loud, and chaotic, and prone to acting on their first rather than their best instincts.

But what he and Tendi have is, in a word, comfortable _._ Not the ‘comfortable’ of mediocrity and cut corners and _Yeah, it’s probably safe to leave_ _off_ _realigning those coils until next week;_ but that of a warp engine humming along at ninety-seven per cent efficiency, or your partner passing you the hyperspanner before you even have to ask for it. It’s an unspoken understanding, an oasis of stability on this hectic, slowly-disintegrating ship. And he is terrified of wrecking it with something so insignificant as a crush.

These things happen, he supposes. It was the Badgey incident that really put things in perspective. Sometimes your friend mentions a problem that’s freaking her out and you realize how badly you want to not only help her, but _impress_ her by using your very particular set of holodeck-programming skills to solve that problem. Sometimes magnetic boots malfunction and you end up perilously close to holding that friend in your arms, your faces separated only by your visors, and the sight of her eyes glimmering in simulated starlight makes your heart race. Sometimes you find yourself caring so much about that friend that you’re willing to brutally mercy-kill your homicidal digital offspring in an attempt to keep her safe.

(The operative word here is “sometimes”.)

Without intending to, he catches Tendi’s eye and her words peter out into a bashful smile. He instantly whips his head away. He doesn’t want to stare; he doesn’t want to impose. Right now he’s not even sure that he wants to _exist_ this close to her.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from across the table, followed by an outraged yelp of pain. Rutherford expected Mariner would be disappointed in him for losing his nerve again, but in fact she’s barely concealing her glee at this latest display, and her fingers have clenched so tightly around Boimler’s wrist that his hand is turning white.

“Are you… okay?” asks Tendi, squinting at them.

“I have to go!” cries Mariner. “Sorry guys, it’s been great hanging with you, but there’s something I need to work on. I thought it could be wrapped up quickly,” she says, words laden with significance, “but the more I think about it, it’s pretty obvious that it’s going to be a _long-term_ project.” To make matters excruciatingly clear, she makes direct eye contact with Rutherford and taps the side of her nose.

Then, after a brief pause to drain Boimler’s glass, she’s away, obviously prepping the most outlandish plans her fevered mind can draw up. And Rutherford can’t even call out to stop her, lest he give away the whole game.

Tendi’s gaze flickers back and forth between her two remaining friends. “Anyone want to tell me what that was that all about?”

Boimler bites his lip and springs to his feet. “I should go, too. I have to… not be here right now.”

And then there was Rutherford. Under her questioning stare, he wilts. “Mariner’s got some crazy new scheme. Probably best if we just leave her to it.”

“Really? There’s not anything I can do to help?”

He shakes his head. “Definitely not,” he assures her. “You’re already an amazing friend. To her,” he adds hastily.

Her emerald cheeks darken a tinge. “Aw, thanks! By the way, I was wondering if I could get your opinion on some readings I’ve been getting off my latest survey…”

Fine, maybe Boimler’s not the only coward among the four of them. But right now, Rutherford is much happier staying silent. He leans back against the plex of the window and settles in to listen. An entire galaxy’s worth of stars are arrayed behind him, but on the other hand – D’Vana’s here, and she’s fired up, and out of all the hundreds of people on this ship, he’s the one she wants to talk to.

Who needs a galaxy, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fic in a long time! For some reason these knuckleheads inspired me.
> 
> I'm only starting my deep dive into the ST universe after finishing Lower Decks, so forgive me if I get any details wrong!


	2. Chapter 2

“I just want it known that I’m doing this under protest.”

Mariner doesn’t even turn her head from the controls. “Noted and ignored, ensign.”

“It just seems a little over-the-top, is all I’m saying.”

“So you _don’t_ want to help our dear friend Rutherford find happiness?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Boimler protests. Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers to open his mouth around Mariner, who has a way of running roughshod over even the most reasonable of critiques. “I’m just wondering why you think _this_ is the best way to–”

“Fifty meters and closing. Spot me.”

Boimler instantly falls silent, fingers ready on the console. Below them, the exhaust from the shuttle is making the jungle canopy whip and sway like a stormy sea. “All clear on the right,” he says. “Landing protocols initiated. Forty-five meters… forty… Readings still steady.”

Normally a shuttle landing would be a piece of cake, but as ever, second contact makes things tricky. The inhabitants of Keldorix consider their planet’s vegetation holy – harming trees is blasphemous, and _cutting them down_ is pretty much unthinkable. Ecologically enlightened, perhaps, but it means the only viable landing site in the area is a natural clearing scarcely larger than the shuttle itself. Mariner and Boimler have to pilot their craft more or less straight down without shaving even a scrap of bark off the dozens of colossal trunks on all sides of them.

“Talk about threading a needle,” Boimler mutters.

“Yeah, that’s one metaphor you could use for this situation,” Mariner replies with a smirk. It takes him a few moments to realize she’s probably evoking imagery that is decidedly _not_ appropriate to mention during an official Starfleet operation. Before he can chew her out, though, the proximity alarms start blaring.

“Back off from your eight o’clock,” he reads off the console. “I’ll boost the starboard engines just a bit to keep us steady. Thirty meters and dropping.”

“Good catch. Adjusting to compensate,” says Mariner. She’s chewing her bottom lip as her fingers bounce off the dashboard like a maestro at the piano. Boimler’s spent his fair share of hours in the simulator, and considers himself a perfectly adequate pilot. But Mariner just has a _touch_ for these things, like she’s been piloting shuttles her whole life. At this point, he’s accepted that every so often, between bouts of badmouthing the captain and hiding contraband beneath the floors, Mariner will randomly reveal a further layer of staggering competence, which she will neither brag about nor even acknowledge. Boimler has no idea how she’s gained so much experience at such a young age. But damn if it doesn’t come in handy at times like these.

“Fifteen meters. And remember the cargo,” he urges. “We don’t want to hit the ground too hard.”

“Right,” she says. Then, abruptly, “Cut the engines.” The command seems insane, but it’s delivered with such authority that it brooks no debate. Boimler, with no time to think it over, instinctively decides that he can trust Mariner on this. He cuts the engines.

There’s a slight lurch as they start to gain speed. Boimler tries not to think about the fact that they’re basically falling out of the sky. Mariner drums her fingers in anticipation and barks, “Ramp it back up when I say so. Three… two… _now_.”

She pulls the nose up as the engines purr to life, gaining power half a second at a time. Their descent slows, but not violently – the combination of upward and downward acceleration cancels out into what can best be described as a waft. There’s a quiet crinkle of leaves as the _Joshua Tree_ touches the forest floor, gentle as a kiss.

“You’ll never keep a shuttle perfectly steady going down,” Mariner says, exhaling gratefully, “but lean into it, control the drop, and you can even things out at the last second. Not exactly procedure, but I’d say it worked pretty frigging well just now.” She claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks for going with me on that one. You’re not quite ride or die yet, but we’re getting there.”

Boimler chooses not to shrug her off. Despite everything, the two of them are each good at their jobs – and what’s more amazing, they perform _better_ at tasks when they work together. It’s almost refreshing when they have a problem to share; it’s just about the only time they ever stop fighting.

The shuttle door opens with a pneumatic hiss, and Rutherford pokes his head inside. “Nice landing, guys!” His gaze settles on the gleaming devices sitting on pallets in the cargo bay. “That’s them, right? The plasma-conducting relay amplifiers? Oh, they’re even more beautiful in person…” He approaches gingerly and runs a finger along the chrome casing with a level of reverence usually not seen outside a Bajoran shrine. “Now that’s what I call a _polish._ ”

“Look sharp, loverboy,” says Mariner, snapping her fingers impatiently. “This isn’t just another away mission, remember?”

“Oh, so we’re still doing this,” Boimler and Rutherford sigh at the same time, and Boimler feels a surge of fondness for the engineer. Rutherford’s dedication to his job is commendable, and Boimler respects anyone with a healthy regard for the warp core, but they don’t always have a lot to discuss – Boimler just doesn’t have the tech know-how to talk shop with Rutherford the way Tendi can. Still, all mortals can find common cause when faced when the unstoppable hurricane that is Beckett Mariner.

“Oh yeah,” she says, voice crackling with enthusiasm. “Your first workshop begins _today_.”

Rutherford glances back furtively at the technicians working outside. “Not so loud! Can we at least wait till we’re away from the base camp?”

“Fiiiiine,” Mariner grumbles. “But remember, my lessons will be worthless if you’re too scared to actually use them on other people. People like _Tendi_.”

How could anyone not pity Rutherford, seeing him squirm at the mention of the dreaded name? Boimler’s made no secret of his opinion that this whole endeavor is ridiculous and ill-advised – romantic stuff is agonizing enough without Mariner breathing down your neck the whole time, as he knows better than anyone. Admittedly, it’s not always bad being the target of her full attention, but it’s definitely not for the faint of heart. “Listen, Rutherford, I’m not going to go along with this if you’re uncomfortable–”

“No, it’s alright,” says Rutherford, staring at his feet. “I was thinking about this last night and… I wouldn’t mind a few tips. I don’t know if I’m going to actually _do_ anything with them, but at least I’ll have the knowledge tucked away. It’s really easy to say the wrong thing to someone, and I don’t want that to happen with me and Tendi.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mariner crows, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Rutherford gives a tentative thumbs-up. “Now let’s get moving. Class is in session!”

* * *

Today’s mission is straightforward, if tedious. The forests of Keldorix are so thick, and the canopy so tight, that they interfere with orbital transmissions – both communications and transporter beams. To get around this, the crew of the _Cerritos_ are installing a network of amplifiers over a ten-kilometer area that, joined together, will create a signal strong enough to punch through the interference.

In practice, this means that their party of three has to shove a hoverlift laden with equipment through vines and mud and stinging insects to reach their assigned installation point, four klicks from the landing site. Boimler refuses to complain –this is exactly the work that the Federation ought to be doing, a concrete example of its dedication to uniting the galaxy– but he also can’t deny that the end of this shift _cannot_ come quickly enough.

“Obviously, you have to be able to listen,” Mariner is saying; ironic, since she’s been keeping up a running patter for the past twenty minutes. “I cannot tell you how many times I’ve sat down with a hot guy (and it’s always a guy, no offense, but ladies and enbies never have this problem) only to find out that he never learned how to just _shut up!_ Total turn-off.”

“I think I’ve got that one covered,” Rutherford mumbles.

Mariner chuckles. “Of course you do, Mister _She-has-a-nice-voice-maybe._ Honestly, I don’t know why I’m having to coach you – you two should have started making out _months_ ago.”

“It must be nice,” Boimler gripes, wiping the sweat from his brow, “to have Mariner trying to _help_ with your love life, instead of coming after your girlfriend with a phaser.”

Mariner _tsks_ and wags her finger at him. “Oh, Boims. Don’t get me wrong, Barb’s great, I totally admit to misjudging her, but did you really want to stay with someone who you doesn’t like you for _you_?” This is actually a reasonable point, except that she immediately follows it up with, “That’s why it’s way better to keep hanging out with me – sure, I dislike you, but I dislike you exactly for who you are! We’re basically soul-foes.”

“Can we just keep moving?” Boimler snaps. It’s not that he’s annoyed –well, not _just_ that’s he’s annoyed– but the deeper they get into the jungle, the eerier it all becomes. The trees loom above them like columns in an ancient ruin, the leaves so dense that barely any light trickles down to the ground. Cursory biological surveys suggested a planet teeming with life – much of it undocumented, and not necessarily friendly. He can’t stop scanning the treeline. Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he could swear he sees shadows moving between the trunks.

He feels the now-familiar pressure of a firm arm looped around his neck. “Aw, Bradward,” Mariner coos, “worried the monsters will get you? Come on, you know I’ll protect you.” And she flexes her other arm a little, because of course she does. It’s not _not_ reassuring – you don’t spend this much time around Beckett Mariner without noticing that she has the perfectly-sculpted biceps to back up her bad attitude.

Normally, Boimler shrinks from physical contact. It can be overwhelming when you’re not ready for it. But Mariner is his friend, and by now he’s accepted that her natural mode of expression is through touch, whether it takes the form of a hug or an uppercut. It’s just… how she is. And he trusts her not to go too far – after all, even though she generally finds an excuse to tussle with him at least once a day, she’s never once purposely hurt him. (He’s decided to let that accident with the bat’leth slide, for now.) So even though the prickle of skin-on-skin contact and the rush of hot breath in his ear can be more than a little overstimulating, these days he usually doesn’t kick up much of a fuss about it.

Today, though, having a whole other warm-blooded human being hanging off him in a tropical climate is not helping his mood, nor is the fact that the close proximity of their combadges is making them whine in a grating feedback loop. He strains against her arm, and she lets him loose almost at once – though she also blows a raspberry at him as he stumbles away.

“Let’s just keep it down, okay?” he sulks. “Keep yelling like this and we might as well hang _Eat Me_ signs around our necks.”

“I’d wear that sign,” Mariner snorts. “Kinky!”

Meanwhile, Rutherford has been busy consulting his scanner. “Guys? I actually think this is the site.” He releases the hoverlift and lets the amplifier settle into the loamy soil. Installation will take up to an hour, much of it hands-off as they wait for the network settings to calibrate. This day just keeps getting better.

“Of course, it’s all a moot point if you can’t score a date in the first place,” Mariner rambles on as Rutherford fusses with the console. “That’s why you have to be able to flirt.”

Then, in a betrayal for the ages, she adds: “Why don’t you practice on Boimler?”

“ _Me?”_ Boimler squeaks.

“Just pretend you’re talking to Tendi. Try out some compliments, get used to saying them to a real person.”

“Well, okay,” says Rutherford, setting down his hyperspanner. Boimler reluctantly plays along, glaring daggers at Mariner all the while.

Rutherford scratches the back of his head and stammers out, “H-hey Tendi, I heard they got new tricorders down in medical, are they as good as I hear?”

“ _Nope_ ,” Mariner declares, slashing a finger across her throat. “Listen, Rutherford, it’s genuinely great that you and Tendi can talk about nerd shit, having shared interests is great for the long-term, but it’s not going to make your intentions any clearer in the moment. If you’re interested in her romantically, you have to show it. Tell me, what are some things you like about Tendi?”

“Well, she’s super smart,” Rutherford says instantly. “And her smile always makes me feel better?” He pauses. “And she’s so driven to do science, which is really inspiring.” Another pause. “And her nose is adorable. And she cares so deeply about her friends. And her eyes are always so bright, and her hair is great, like it’s super practical but it has so much personality to it and really just shouts ‘Tendi’ _,_ and don’t even get me started on her genomics expertise–”

“ _Okay we get it,”_ Mariner bursts in. “I’ll start writing my best woman speech tonight. But these are good starting points.” She gestures to Boimler. “Now repeat all that stuff to ‘Tendi’. Eye contact included.”

Boimler would like to imagine that he’d face a firing squad with the same stoic affect that he displays now. Rutherford approaches, sweating bullets. “I-I really like your hair,” he manages. “It’s short… and nice. Very… you.”

“Not bad,” calls Mariner. “Put some more feeling into it, though.”

He screws his face into a rictus grin. “When you’re around, it always brightens up my day!” he nearly shouts. Boimler can’t help but flinch.

“Okay, big guy.” Mariner swoops in, patting Rutherford’s shoulders. “Good try, good try. But you’re trying to _woo_ her, not make her call security. Why don’t you step back a minute – I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Oh no,” Boimler squeaks. “I’ll put up with Rutherford, fine, but I’m not gonna just stand here and take whatever _outrageous_ comments you dish out–”

“Relax, bonehead, I’ll keep it classy,” Mariner snaps, shunting Rutherford out of the way. Then her shoulders relax. Her mouth quirks into a self-satisfied smile. The sudden shift in body language is uncanny enough, but then she props one arm against the amplifier and gives him a once-over. It’s terrifying.

Mariner is a gorgeous woman. It’s not something you really think about; it’s all part of the mystique, same as the hot temper and the expert marksmanship and the encyclopedic knowledge of every alien species in the Federation. You don’t dwell on the facts of nature, you just acknowledge them and move on with your life. The sun is a G-type main sequence star; dilithium has an atomic weight of 87; Beckett Mariner is an amazonian goddess.

At least, that’s how Boimler usually sees it. But it is another thing entirely when the woman in question is gazing at you like she’s a sommelier and you’re a rare bottle of Picard ‘47. His mouth goes dry.

Then she purrs, “Hey Tendi,” and his heart rate starts to stabilize. She goes on, “Have I ever told you how much I _love_ your hair? The undercut suits you perfectly – cute, but _bold_.”

Okay. So this is happening. He’s officially being hit on by one of the most beautiful people he knows… as a proxy, a training dummy, a cardboard cutout of someone else who he doesn’t remotely resemble. But it’s fine. It’s not like he’s absolutely mortified by this turn of events. And he’s definitely not wondering whether it ranks as the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him in his whole life.

(Well, there was that time with the macaroni. Or that presentation for Ancient Philosophies. Or when he decided he needed to change his– Point is, it’s probably still in the top five.)

“Has anyone ever told you how stunning you are? What am I saying, of course they have. Your smile is to die for.”

Off to the side, Rutherford has pulled out a PADD and is taking notes.

“And I know you must be a talented surgeon,” she drawls, “because you’re already holding my heart in your hands.”

Rutherford nods. Boimler gags.

Seeing this, Mariner’s confidence seems to flicker for a split second, before she cracks a wry grin, like she’s accepting a challenge. She takes a step closer. Her voice drops to a throaty murmur that makes Boimler gulp. “Seriously, though – anyone can see how much you care about your job, and I think that’s awesome. If you ask me, passion is everything. Why even be out here if you aren’t doing something you love, y’know? You set a great example for the rest of us.”

That’s… actually a very sweet sentiment. Maybe Mariner does have some good ideas after all. Although she’s leaning entirely too close for comfort at this point. Was he already sweating this much?

“I’m so lucky I get to work with you every day.” Her hand finds his, and he almost jumps. The noises of the jungle have faded away. Rutherford who? It’s just the two of them here.

“And I can tell you don’t think of yourself as especially attractive, but trust me… you are. You’ve got great hair, a great laugh, and your _eyes_...” She trails off, holding his gaze. Is this weird? What are they trying to do here again? Did the world exist before Mariner started talking?

She’s quiet for a long moment, mouth working silently like she’s searching for words. Her eyes are shining, her gaze hypnotic.

“Your eyes are like black holes,” she whispers. “So dark and deep, _I can’t help getting lost in them…_ ”

Her grip on his hand tightens. Their combadges, mere inches apart, have started to crackle again, but the sound is distant, unreal. She smells of sweat, and carbon scoring, and something sharply sweet, like citrus. His entire field of vision is filled with nothing but her smile.

“Um,” says Rutherford. “Tendi’s eyes are green.”

Mariner’s eyes widen a fraction, then she jumps a meter straight backwards.

“Like a light green,” the ever-oblivious Ensign Rutherford continues. “Maybe you could say mossy? They’re nice… they’re _really_ nice, if I’m honest… but I don’t think you’d call them ‘dark’.”

“I was _spitballing_ , genius,” Mariner growls, staring fixedly at her boots. “We’re not always gonna strike gold the first time around.”

Boimler finally remembers how to breathe. He has to lean on the amplifier to stay upright.

“Boimler’s eyes are dark brown, though,” says Rutherford, like he’s only just realizing this. “Were you flirting with him, instead?”

Mariner’s head jerks back up. _“_ _W_ _hat.”_ Meanwhile, Boimler is busy choking on his own tongue.

“Like as part of the exercise. Showing me how to improvise, noticing things about someone and immediately turning them into compliments.”

Mariner absently drums her fingers against her thigh. “Oh. Yeah, I might have been doing some of that. For the exercise. I mean, if you can find nice things to say about Boimler, you can do it for anybody, right?”

The adrenaline surging through Boimler’s brain is starting to abate, replaced by a slowly building sense of indignation. “Well then you were really good!” Rutherford is saying. “For a moment there I thought you were actually into it.”

“I should’ve been an actor,” Mariner retorts. “Now can we please _focus?”_

Her cheeks are flushed; she’s refusing to make eye contact with either of them; she’s clenching and releasing her fist every few seconds. She’s flustered – No. Wait. Boimler’s figured out what’s going on here.

She’s _offended._ Apparently the idea that she might have been genuinely flirting with Boimler, even for a moment, is actively insulting to her pride. Well. Good to know exactly what she thinks of him. Should it even come as a surprise? After all, the first time she was exposed to the idea that he might be dating someone who genuinely liked him, her knee-jerk reaction was not support or well-wishes (you know, the way a _friend_ responds to that news) but stunned disbelief.

Boimler marches away from the scene of his abject humiliation, arm crossed and eyes screwed shut, and allows himself the luxury of a good fume for a minute or two. If Mariner notices how deep he’s blushing she’ll never let him hear the end of it.

Rutherford has returned to the amplifier console to calibrate the multiplicative transponders, chuckling all the while. “It’s okay. Boimler is kinda cute, you know? Reminds me of a guy I dated back at the Academy–”

Mariner’s voice tenses like steel wire. “Rutherford. Shut up.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. You’re doing all this to help me, so I shouldn’t–”

“No, I mean, _Shut. Up._ Did you hear that?”

They both fall silent. For a long minute, nothing is audible but the rustle of leaves and the buzz of insects. Then, beneath the white noise, a low rumble and a chittering like teeth clacking together. Boimler cracks one eye open. Before him, the undergrowth is shaking.

“ _Brad,”_ Mariner whispers. _“Get back over here._ _N_ _ow.”_

She doesn’t have to tell him twice. Just as he starts to move, the ferns part and something rushes him. He barely catches a glimpse of it before he’s running for his life. His main impression is that it’s about the size of an Earth wolf, has a thick, scaly hide, and is baring _way_ more teeth than a life form has any right to possess.

Golden blasts of energy fly past him on either side. There’s an outraged roar, but no sign that pursuit has stopped. “It’s resistant to phaser fire!” Rutherford shouts.

Then Boimler sees Mariner racing towards him. With one arm, she grabs him by the scruff of his uniform and hurls him toward the amplifier. With the other she raises a fist and uppercuts, catching the creature square under the snout and hurling it backwards. It picks itself up, four eyes narrowing as it sizes up this new opponent. Then two more identical creatures come slithering out of the brush to take their place at either side of it.

“Oh good,” Mariner mutters. “They hunt in packs.”

“ _We need backup!_ ” Boimler wails into his combadge, still crouching on hands and knees where he’s fallen. But the three of them wouldn’t even be here if reception was reliable on this planet. All he hears in response is a hiss of static; no telling whether the distress signal went through.

Beside him, Rutherford emits a deep sigh and presses a button on the side of his implant. The voice that next comes out of his mouth is not his own. “ _COMBAT PROTOCOL ENGAGED,”_ he growls in a distressing monotone as he launches himself into the fray, picking up one creature bodily and hurling it halfway across the clearing.

Sheesh. Boimler makes a note not to piss off Rutherford.

But even with another body in the fight, it’s still two squishy humans against three apex predators with fangs the size of daggers. The odds aren’t in their favor here. Boimler knows he should join in and support them, but he also knows that any punch he throws is more likely to break his own knuckles than it is to damage that thick hide.

So he’s stuck, as usual, cowering behind something solid while his more badass friends put themselves in harm’s way. He joined Starfleet to make a difference, damn it, so why do away missions always make him feel so _helpless_?

Mariner and Rutherford have been forced back-to-back. The creatures circle them warily, looking for an opening, lashing their thick tails to test the ensigns’ defenses. Mariner wipes the blood from her cheek and spits out a tooth. Boimler’s seen her in plenty of fights before, and when she knows she’s in control of a situation she’s practically giddy with bloodlust. There’s none of that here. Her eyes are narrowed, flashing around wildly. She’s clearly in tactical mode, trying to size up whether it’s better to hold their ground or make a break for it and hope these monsters won’t be able to keep up.

Boimler impotently pounds on his combadge. Nothing comes out but that infuriating static mixed with the squeak of bad feedback. Funny how, in a life or death situation, such a tiny frustration is what is finally going to drive him over the edge…

He experiences a much-delayed brainwave and hauls himself up to eye-level with the amplifier’s control console. It’s still in the midst of upgrading, but if he’s very lucky – _there!_ He selects the option labelled AUXILIARY INPUT and presses LOCAL BROADCAST.

“Mariner,” he shouts, “throw me your badge!” There’s a momentary furrowing of her brow – an expression Boimler recognizes, the same one he made when she asked him to cut the engines during landing. It’s the face of someone asking themselves: _How much do I trust you?_

She turns her gaze away from the beasts, exposing herself to multiple blows that she barely dodges. And then, wonder of wonders, without a single skeptical demand or snarky comment, she plucks her badge off her chest and tosses it to him in one fluid motion.

Almost as miraculous, Boimler catches it without fumbling. Now with one badge in each hand, he glances at the console. The frequency is synced. “Cover your ears!” he hollers, and slams his palms together.

The resulting screech is _almost_ loud enough to drown out Mariner’s response, a resounding “ _FUCK!”_ She falls to her knees, hands clapped over her ears. Rutherford stumbles, his digital eye flashing through a rainbow of warning lights. Boimler doesn’t even have the luxury of plugging his ears – he has to keep his hands together to maintain the noise.

Luckily, the creatures aren’t able to take advantage of their collective incapacitation. They’ve fallen back on their haunches, yipping and snapping, shaking their heads in pain. It isn’t long before they’re turning tail and stumbling back the way they came, their forms melting into the undergrowth.

Boimler holds the noise a few moments longer to make sure they’re gone, then lets the badges fall out of his hand as he staggers back against the amplifier. Mariner stumbles towards him and takes his arm. They stand there, panting.

“First off, fuck you,” she says. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from a long way off. “Secondly… that was a pretty awesome plan.” She fist-taps him fondly on the shoulder.

Then they turn their attention to Rutherford, who’s leaking a bit of smoke from his implant. “Do we need to Ctrl-Alt-Delete him?” asks Mariner.

“I’m okay,” Rutherford gasps, hauling himself to his feet. “Need to reboot, but no long-term damage.”

While they wait for Rutherford to run diagnostics, Boimler hands Mariner back her combadge. Her fingers linger on his a moment as she takes it. “Hey, so about earlier,” she says, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. Her expression is downcast; if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost call it shy. “I didn’t mean to…” She looks down, and her voice grows so soft that Boimler doesn’t make out the rest of the sentence.

He replies, “WHAT?”

She blanches and stumblingly attempts to repeat herself, only to cut off halfway through upon hearing activity in the vegetation. Shoving Boimler behind her, she falls into a reluctant combat position, the exhaustion clear in her stance.

One of the creatures comes barreling back from the same direction it fled in, barely seeming to notice their presence. Apparently it’s too focused on evading some unseen pursuer.

It’s made it halfway to them when a blue shadow descends from the understory, letting out a screeching war cry. Then, with a killer’s instinct, D’Vana Tendi lands a direct blow to its neck and it collapses, paralyzed. She looks up.

“Oh!” she says brightly. “There you are!”

Behind her, a security team comes charging into view with Shaxs at the head, a beast slung over each shoulder. “I was running a clinic in the village when we got your distress call,” Tendi explains. “We came as fast as we could. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I like… your hair…” Rutherford gurgles. “The undercut… suits you.”

Tendi asks no questions, but immediately swoops down to tend to him. “He’ll be fine,” Mariner says sharply, then bites her lip a little and asks, “Tendi… when did you learn to fight like that?”

“Oh, that?” Tendi giggles. “That’s nothing! Just what I could remember from primary school. Hand-to-hand combat is a foundational subject on Orion. I was never very good at it – by the time I was nine and still only incapacitating three grown warriors at a time, they told me I should start considering a career in science instead.”

Mariner leans down and sternly whispers something in Rutherford’s ear. Boimler can’t make it out, but can safely assume that it’s something along the lines of _If you don’t ask her out soon, I will._

After that, the rest of the array installation goes smoothly, and communications with the _Cerritos_ are normalized before nightfall. Tendi takes a look at their ears and treats the worst of the damage before she, Rutherford, and most of the crew beam straight back to the ship. Boimler and Mariner are left behind to bring the shuttle back manually.

The takeoff is flawless. There’s never a moment of doubt; they don’t even have to exchange words. That’s what makes them an effective team – they understand each other perfectly. Which is why Boimler never asks Mariner what it was she was trying to say back in the jungle.

“I didn’t mean to…” He knows where she was going with it. _I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. Didn’t mean to make you think that I would even for a second see you in that light._ _Didn’t mean to get your hopes up that anyone might ever say things like that to you and_ mean _them._

By the time they set back into the shuttle bay, the ringing in his ears has fully died down. He wants a drink, but Mariner begs off, citing some mysterious new mission. “The workshop didn’t go great today,” she explains, “but I have a better idea. It’ll be awesome, just wait and see.”

He doesn’t push the matter. He could use some time to himself at the moment. Not to mope, of course, why would he do that? He’s fine.

Everything is just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because writing scenes of meaningful eye contact between characters who canonically have big bulgy cartoon eyes and no established eye color is what fanfic is all about, right?


	3. Chapter 3

The evening is warm and ripe with possibility. The chandelier in the ballroom is just now being lit as the sun dips over the horizon. Under the balcony, the dusk-dappled waves lap sensuously against the surf. The wind smells of salt and cypress, olives and dates. Beckett Mariner leans on the railing and takes a sip of champagne.

It’s been two days since the abortive workshop on Keldorix; four days total since she embarked on the sacred project of helping her two nerdiest friends bone. It’s time to take this motherfucker to the next level.

With an intrusive hiss, the holodeck door slides open, followed by the gratifying sound of Boimler and Rutherford gasping as if on cue.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all,” she gloats, spreading her arms in her best _are-you-not-entertained_ pose as she minces down the steps from the observation balcony to the the dance floor.

“You, uh, really went all out with the programming on this one,” Rutherford stammers. She’s pleased to see he put at least a little work into his appearance: his hair is slicked back tidily, and for once there’s not a speck of grease to be spotted under his nails. She’s a little disgusted by his choice to wear a fitted polo shirt, not least because the preppy look actually _works_ for him, even if he suddenly seems more at home on a yacht than a Cali-class. It is, however, the same eye-searing goldenrod of the Ops division, so at least some things never change.

Boimler, meanwhile, clearly preferred a dressier outfit. Or, more specifically, _the_ dress outfit.

“I gave you one job,” Mariner shrieks. “There was a note! Did you not see the note?!” She reaches into her pocket and produces her own copy of the note, which she retained for precisely this eventuality. It reads:

_Beckett Mariner_

_Formally Invites You To_

**_AN EVENING UNDER THE STARS_  
**

_(Well, Technically We’re Always Under the Stars But This Time It’s In The Holodeck)_

_The Holodeck, 20:00_

_Dress Code: Formal Civilian Wear. Please Be Creative_

_NO DRESS UNIFORMS_

_(This Means You, Boimler)_

Maybe the dress code is a little unconventional, but Mariner has spent so much of her life surrounded by people in Starfleet uniforms that civvies are a point of fascination for her. It can be a revelation to learn what a crewmate who you’ve only ever seen in (let’s be real here) fancy pajamas chooses to wear in their free time. When Amina showed up to their first date wearing not her Academy attire but a slinky cocktail dress, Mariner literally could not think straight and forgot how to speak for roughly half an hour.

(On the flip side, she’s never been able to take Shaxs quite as seriously after learning that he has a surprisingly extensive collection of Hawaiian shirts.)

“I just thought, well, what if there’s a red alert?” Boimler blusters. “Or a surprise inspection? I don’t want the captain to catch me out of uniform! And I did try to put my own spin on it,” he finishes lamely, pointing to his lapel, where he has pinned a violet carnation.

It is, she realizes with grudging respect, the same striking midnight purple as his hair, but she refrains from acknowledging this. Both because he doesn’t deserve the victory, and because the last time she threw compliments in his direction, things got… well.

Normally, when Boimler’s annoyed, he won’t stop griping about whatever it is that’s got him riled up – which three-quarters of the time is Mariner herself. It’s not a huge deal. More often than not, it’s actually pretty funny. And in a way she’s glad that he’s such an open book, because it always makes it easy to tell exactly where the two of them stand, whether that’s “open animosity” or “open animosity concealing a wafer-thin layer of mutual respect”.

What Boimler does not do is sulk. And yet that’s exactly what he did for, like, an entire day after Keldorix. “I’m fine,” he’d said when they first got back to the ship. “I’m fine,” he’d said the next morning, when he pointedly avoided her at breakfast. “I’m fine!” he’d said, unprompted, when they were serving bridge duty, which made Carol look at him funny for the rest of his shift.

It wasn’t the temporary hearing loss; Boimler gets injured worse at least once a week and always bounces back as fresh-faced as ever. That meant it had to be because of… the other thing. She considered for the briefest moment whether he might have been dazzled by the old Mariner charm – let’s face it, she’s a hottie– before dismissing the thought as absurd. After all, Boimler is a grade-A sap who basically goes heart-eyes for every beautiful woman he meets _except_ Mariner. The only way she ever gets his pulse up is by royally pissing him off.

And, she’s realized, that’s exactly the root of the problem: Brad takes the idea of romance so seriously that he must’ve thought Mariner, the one person he’d never, _ever_ see in a romantic light, was mocking him by laying on the compliments so thick. This whole snit has just been his way of making his boundaries clear.

Well, message received. Of course, she wasn’t actually trying to make fun of him. And it’s not even like all of the things she said were untrue: it _is_ pretty sweet how much he cares about his job, and his laugh is kind of endearing in a dumb, squeaky way, and his eyes are… The point is, it was just an object lesson for Rutherford’s benefit, and if it seemed like she got too into it, that’s just because she’s a good method actor and she was going with the moment. By now she’s mentally relived the incident enough times to be confident that she was definitely going to stop herself before she followed through on the mortifying, brain-bending premise of –holy shit– _kissing Brad Boimler on the lips_. Can you even imagine? Mariner could, but she won’t.

At least today it seems like things have gotten back to normal between the two of them. And they didn’t even have to talk about it! She’s especially grateful he didn’t hear her stammering attempt at an apology back on Keldorix: _I didn’t mean to make_ _things_ _weird._ _I was just_ _trying to show Rutherford what to do_ _and I… um… Anyway, thanks for putting up with that._ Awkward, much? Sometimes it feels like she’s got one brain for talking and another brain for battle and she can’t have both of them running at the same time.

In any case, she knows what to do this time around. Confronted with Brad’s not-uncharming choice of boutonniere, she just waves her hand and _tsks._ “Whatever. Not all of us can ooze style from every pore.”

“Honestly, you’re… not dressed how I expected,” he says. The hesitation makes her suspect a back-handed compliment until she remembers that no, Bradward Boimler really is just that awkward. Also, it shows how little he knows, because how can Mariner put on a fancy event and _not_ show up in an immaculately-tailored tuxedo? She straightens her cuffs and shoots him a smug wink.

(And yes, the cufflinks are little Starfleet deltas. Never let it be said that Beckett Mariner doesn’t rep her ship.)

“Seriously, this would’ve taken me _days_ to program,” Rutherford announces, clearly enjoying the way his voice echoes in the illusory space. Mariner allows herself to feel a little flattered. Growing up on a ship means that the Holodeck was to her what a sandbox is to an Earth kid. (Except that from what she’s heard, sandboxes don’t let you spawn hordes of Romulan grunts to beat up when you’re mad at your mom and need to blow off steam. She definitely got the better end of the deal.)

“Oh! Is that a…” Rutherford squints at the ornate, wardrobe-shaped object given pride of place next to the beverage table. “…a record player?”

“Oh, yeah, that.” Mariner drapes herself against the polished wood panelling. “Replicated it fresh this morning. Right after I put together this–” She retrieves the vinyl disc and twirls in her hands. “Four centuries of the greatest love songs the Federation has ever heard. We’re talking Edith Piaf. Whitney Houston. G’zatt, The Man With Two Throats. Finally together on one record.”

“But why go to the trouble of replicating such an archaic machine?” asks Bradward, who at some point must have gotten hit by a phaser set to _Purge all sense of fun_. “You could just have the holodeck recreate G’Zatt in person, plus the orchestra to go with.”

Mariner dismisses this idiotic question with a wave of her hand. “Holodeck speakers are digital. Fine mostly, but too tinny when it really counts. Only vinyl gives you the fullest sound.”

Rutherford chimes in, “Actually, decades of research have proven that the human ear can no longer determine the difference–”

Mariner hugs the record close. “This is how it was meant to be heard!”

And now Bradward is smirking, which is always worrisome. “Mariner,” he says, “are you an _analoguer_?”

“No way! I mean,” she whips her head away so he can’t see that her cheeks are flushing, “I don’t even know what you’re _talking_ about.”

He grins and claps his hands like he’s just won a two-week shore leave on Risa. “Oh man, you are! You, of all people!”

“What’s an analoguer?” asks Rutherford.

“Nothing, just some word Boimler made up because he makes up words for fun because he has no life–” says Mariner, desperate to halt this conversation before it goes any further, but Bradward presses on:

“It’s that thing where bridge officers, captains especially, pretend to love pre-First Contact popular culture because they think it makes them seem sophisticated. Like Riker with his jazz, or Sisko with his, what’s it called, ‘basebat’?” (Here he uses airquotes, because of course he does, and count on Brad to not have heard of even the least intense sport in human history.) “It’s pretty much the stuffiest, most upper decks affectation you could possibly have.” The very thought of it makes him break out in reedy guffaws.

“Hey, some people actually like that stuff!” protests Mariner. Admittedly, it’s not the sort of thing that would normally be up her alley. But she can hardly tell them that the reason she listens to so-called 'captain music' is because her mom really is a captain, now can she? “It’s… important to me.”

She turns the fresh-pressed disc over in her hands. It’s been a long time since she’s used a record player, and she wonders if bringing one here was a mistake. The whole setup almost makes her feel like a kid again, all the way back when Mom and Dad still shared officers’ quarters and the three of them played at being a nuclear family. The earthy, wood-pulp smell of the record sleeve, the _pop_ of the needle settling into the groove… it’s as if she’s there now, sprawled on the little loveseat in the living room, watching her parents slow dance to a song that’s centuries old.

She gradually notices that Brad has stopped laughing, and is now gazing at her with an expression resembling genuine concern. “Hey, you okay?” he says, extending a hand toward her shoulder. “I was just teasing–”

“I’m fine,” she snaps, shrugging him off. “And I really need you to stop repeating any word that starts with ‘anal’.” _That_ shuts him up.

“Well, I enjoy the Monkees,” Rutherford says to no one in particular. “But if I’m honest I only checked them out because I liked the idea of an all-simian band, and I’m still a little disappointed that it was just three humans and Davy Jones.”

Mariner lets out a sigh and places the record on the turntable. Across the holodeck, the door slides open again and the room fills with the babble of impressed voices as what sounds like a dozen people file in. It would have been a bit too transparent to host an elaborate dance for just four people, so as cover Mariner has invited a selection of the cooler ensigns to fill out the roster. In her magnanimity, she has even invited a few folks from Delta shift, which basically makes this a diplomatic conference. She glances back to see that, sure enough, the lady of the hour is hustling through the crowd, babbling apologies with every other breath.

“Sorry I’m late!” Tendi gasps. She’s bent over at the knees, breathing deep. “I was just getting changed when Dr. T’Ana called me in for surgery. Lucky this outfit works great for concealing Andorian blood!”

Mariner badly wants this to be a joke, but isn’t willing to bet on it. At least the dress, a lovely floral number patterned with blue-stemmed, amber-petalled Orion flowers, isn’t too obviously spattered with gore. And let’s be real: Tendi could be wearing raw targ pelts and still be the cutest girl in the nearest three systems. Mariner glances at Rutherford and is unsurprised to see that his jaw has nearly dislocated.

She elbows him from behind with her free arm. He has the audacity to look offended; honestly, this whole mission has been hopeless from the word ‘go’. “ _Like we practiced,_ ” she hisses over her shoulder.

“Your eyes are like black holes!” he barks.

Mariner’s hand slips on the vinyl, producing an honest-to-god record scratch. She turns to find Rutherford wincing and Tendi frozen up like a startled antelope. Boimler is taking a sudden interest in the ceiling (actually a valid reaction – Mariner put a pretty badass fresco up there).

“…is what I would say, if I met a godlike alien being composed of gravitational energy whose eyes resembled black holes,” Rutherford concludes. “Also, Tendi, your dress looks nice.”

“Thanks, Rutherford!” Tendi beams. Mariner and Boimler exhale as one. She continues, “You know, I wasn’t sure I could make it – I have so many reports to file. But then I thought, D’Vana, when’s the last time you made it to a party? So I decided to go for it! Is that too crazy?”

It’s not; if anything, it's just a reminder of how much higher Mariner’s threshold for crazy is set. At any rate, it’s time for stage two. Rutherford may not be ready to charm her with words, but that’s why Mariner planned a dance party, not a poetry reading. “Now that we’re all here,” she announces, confidence building as she feels all eyes settle on her, “let’s get ready to kick this party up to warp nine!” She cranks up the volume as one of Grand Dame Jepsen’s earlier works comes bubbling out of the speakers, and the room breaks into cheers.

“Alright, you two, go hit the dance floor,” she says, steering the two dorks towards each other. “Boimler, go check out the art or whatever it is you do at parties.”

“What about you, Mariner?” asks Tendi.

Mariner waves her off, pouring herself another glass of champagne. The bottle is already half empty; party planning is thirsty work. “I gotta get loosened up first. You start without me.”

“Oh, can we have some?”

Mariner takes a long, loud sip. “Hmm… no.”

Rutherford shrugs ruefully – _Mariner gonna Mariner–_ and offers Tendi a hand. Atta boy. They mix into the crowd that’s already forming at the center of the room. Even Boimler takes a shot at mingling, face fluttering with that awkward half-smile he always makes when he’s trying not to show his nerves.

Mariner leans back to enjoy the show. She’s still got decent hopes for Rutherford, but no matter how this shakes out, she can’t deny how nice it is to have a little time to kick back and have fun with her friends.

And that’s when she hears Jack Ransom say, “I heard someone was throwing a shindig?”

* * *

“You know, if the captain found you down here…”

The invocation of Carol Freeman has the desired effect; Ransom’s eyes dart back and forth for a moment as if worried she’ll materialize from around the nearest corner. Her mom may be a bit of a bitch, but Mariner can’t help but admire how well she’s got her first officer trained.

Ransom tries to play it off. “It’s not against regulation for bridge officers to interact with lower decks at social events. Some would argue it strengthens crew cohesion.”

“Oh, and hooking up with a cute yeoman, does that ‘strengthen cohesion’ too?” Mariner sneers. She’s already refilled her glass once and is seriously considering switching to shots next, because she is nowhere near wasted enough to put up with Ransom right now. God, how did he even find out this party was happening? One of the Deltas probably let it slip. That entire shift is a vipers’ nest.

“Don’t even joke about that! Given the power difference, it would be highly inappropriate for me to become involved with a lower-ranking officer,” he says primly, sounding like a Starfleet manual come to life – until he adds, “But if that Zaldan ambassador shows up –you know, the one with the webbed fingers and the _ph_ _e_ _nomenal_ jumpsuit– would you mind letting me know?”

Unbelievable. Sure, the ambassador is smoking hot, but _still_. “Don’t forget who’s in charge of this simulation,” Mariner snaps. “You’re lucky I don’t open a trapdoor and drop you into the ocean.”

“And you’re lucky I don’t write you up for having alcohol in the holodeck.” He swells up his chest like he’s trying to be intimidating, a habit that Mariner’s convinced is purely instinctive. He’s basically a pufferfish with five o’clock shadow. She responds by disdainfully draining the glass in her hand.

“I don’t want to argue, Mariner,” he goes on. “But fact is, you have a history of disruptive events. The real reason I came here is to make sure things didn’t get too out of hand.”

“And they won’t,” she growls, jabbing a finger into his unnaturally broad chest, “if you just get out of my face.”

“Oh, I’m the one in _your_ face?”

Goddammit, he’s right. She’s done it again. Her face is hovering only inches from his, close enough that she can smell the reek of overpriced cologne radiating off him. She takes a step back, then another, just to be safe.

A few weeks back, Mariner went through a dark night of the soul and was ultimately forced to concede that yes, a part of her does want to get with Ransom. Which is infuriating, frankly, because never before has she met someone who manages to be both hot as sin and bland as replicated vanilla. In a way, she’s ready to go ahead and get their inevitable hookup over and done with, so they never have to look each other in the eyes again. Maybe he’d even put in a transfer request to avoid the awkwardness – but Mariner has never had that much good luck.

He moves back as well, his expression shifty and weird, as if he’s… Oh god. He’s staring at his feet and turning a very subtle shade of pink. He’s _embarrassed._

It’s bad enough that Mariner is aware of her attraction to this man. It is infinitely worse to be aware that _he_ is attracted to _her._ Fight or flight instinct kicks in. Fight isn’t an option (well, fight is _always_ an option, but she doesn’t want to ruin the mood for Rutherford and Tendi by initiating a brawl) so she starts searching for an escape route.

And, like a scrawny, scarlet life preserver, one appears. Bradward is sitting by himself at a table on the observation balcony, staring down at the crowd below, his expression resembling a puppy waiting outside the door on a rainy day. She scoops up a glass in each hand, makes her excuses, and is bounding up the stairs before Ransom has a chance to get a word in edgewise.

* * *

Brad looks up in surprise when she plunks a drink down in front of him. “I put a lot of work into this environment,” she tells him. “So if you aren’t enjoying yourself, I take it as a personal insult.”

“I _am_ enjoying myself!” he insists. “I was just… taking a breather. Watching the sunset. That sort of thing.” But, his resolve visibly weakening, he grabs his champagne and takes a grateful sip, mumbling, “You shouldn’t feel like you have to look after me.”

“I’m just safeguarding the party. You get _sad_ when you’re left alone too long, and it brings down the whole room. Also,” she adds with a sly grin, “you’re my friend, for some reason, and when you’re bummed out it bums me out too.”

He smiles back at her, and wow, he really can be so _earnest_ sometimes. It’s embarrassing. Or maybe she’s embarrassed for him. Whatever. They clink their glasses together and drink deep. The air is filling with the swell of strings and the unique purr of G’Zatt harmonizing with himself, and down below the crowd has started breaking up into pairs.

Mariner sets down her drink. “ _Also_ also, I needed to get away from First Officer Rancid before I ended up cold-cocking him.”

Bradward pulls a face. Mariner assumes he just doesn’t like the idea of her assaulting a senior officer until he says, “Oh. So I’m just a prop.” He shrugs. “I guess it’s not so bad to be inanimate. Does take the pressure off.”

“Was that _sarcasm,_ Ensign Boimler? I think that’s above your pay grade!” She elbows him, and he jumps back with a squeak before the champagne splashes onto his oh-so-perfect dress uniform.

“We don’t get paid, Mariner. And, honestly, I–”

“Shh!” she claps a hand over his mouth and points down at the dance floor. Rutherford and Tendi are dancing – full-blown, arm-in-arm, are-we-at-a-wedding-reception _dancing._ And they are, get this, _gazing into each other’s eyes_ with such focus that the rest of the room might as well not even exist. Soon they’re directly beneath Mariner’s feet and haven’t even noticed, so she sets down her drink and gets ready to enjoy some good old-fashioned shameless eavesdropping.

“I never knew you were so good at this,” Tendi giggles. “Does the implant have a dancing module on top of everything else?”

“It’s all me,” Rutherford says shyly. “I used to take lessons.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Tendi flushes and looks away.

Rutherford doesn’t miss a beat as he lowers her into a flawless dip, but his face is unnaturally stiff. “It’s okay. It’s not the sort of skill set you’d expect from an engineer, right?”

“It’s just – it must be so frustrating, having people assume your knowledge is coming from the implant, instead of you.”

“It can be,” he admits. “Sometimes I just want to stand on a table and shout, ‘ _Hey, there’s a guy attached to this CPU, okay? There’s more to me than the wires in my head!_ ”

“I know there is,” says Tendi, her voice low. “And trust me, the best parts of you are all _you._ ” Mariner barely catches a glimpse of Rutherford’s grin before they’re gone again, caught up in the sweep of the crowd.

“Okay,” Brad says, giving Mariner a start because she didn’t realize he was listening alongside her, “maybe true love does exist. Specifically for those two. No one else.”

“Yeah, and us poor mortals can only dream of a connection that’s as pure, as innocent, and as _utterly embarrassing_ as what they have.” Although, she reflects, maybe a little embarrassment isn’t the worst price to pay for true love. It’s been years since someone made her wear a smile as big and stupid as Rutherford’s. And with that grim thought, Mariner downs the rest of her champagne in one go.

“Boims,” she says decisively, “let’s dance.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s a party, right? It’s _my_ party. I’m tipsy, and I want to move. So, y’know.” She prods him with her foot. “On your feet, ensign.”

“I don’t– I don’t know _how…_ ”

“Pro tip, every alcoholic beverage you imbibe makes you a little bit better at dancing. Or makes you a little less aware of how bad you are. Same thing, really.” She grabs him by his limp wrists and hauls him into a standing position just in time for the transition to the next song, a positively _ancient_ Miracles number with a pace so gentle that even Bradward will be able to keep up.

“I’ll lead,” she mumbles, noticing a little too late that all the champagne is catching up to her at once, but this is basic stuff. “Just keep it simple, _one_ -two-three _four_ -five-six, that’s it,” she advises as they shuffle back and forth. At first, his footwork is so hopeless that she wonders if she’d be better off trying to teach an Edosian to tango. But there’s no hurry, no pressure to perform, and little by little their motions start to fit together. They draw closer, and Mariner finds herself, oddly enough, resting her head on his shoulder.

A minute goes by before she realizes that she’s leaning a little too heavily on him and starts to relax her grip on his waist, but Brad tells her he’s fine. “It’s not like you’re going to break me.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” she mutters. This close up, it’s impossible to forget that the boy is built like a reed. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing – it does make him delightfully easy to grapple when he’s being a dipshit. But it’s hard to shake the feeling that she’ll snap him in two if she looks at him the wrong way.

Is that fair, though? She’s seen firsthand that there’s at least a speck of grit lurking beneath that mild exterior. Hell, it was only day before last that he saved their collective asses with that feedback trick. Maybe there really is a place in Starfleet for everyone, even fragile twinks with stupid hair and unfairly pleasant eyes.

“This isn’t so bad,” he murmurs. “All I have to do sway. Even I can manage that.”

“Aw, come on. I’ve seen you in a firefight, you’re nimble as shit. I refuse to believe you can’t be a great dancer if you try.”

“Lucky I have a great teacher, then.”

“Careful, Brad,” she says with a chuckle, “I think the music’s getting to your head. You’re starting to sound halfway smooth.”

They lapse into an amiable silence as Smokey Robinson croons, _I_ _want to_ _leave you / don’t want t_ _o_ _stay here /_ _don’t want to spe-_ _e-e_ _nd another day here …_

Brad snorts. “Not the most romantic choice, this one.”

“What? This song is a _classic_ , you fool!” she scoffs. “It’s all about that sweet, sweet _drama._ ”

“I should’ve known,” he groans. “That’s what you live for, isn’t it? Drama _._ Like with this whole farce.”

She stumbles, tries to cover it up. “Farce? Excuse me?”

He doesn’t notice anything’s amiss. “Well, yeah? Tendi and Rutherford are pretty much joined at the hip already. It’s not like a big, goofy prom is the missing secret ingredient that will get them together. Honestly, between this and your ‘workshop’ the other day, I’m surprised you haven’t psyched Rutherford out of the whole thing.”

“Oh? And what should I have done to help him?”

“Well, I don’t know anything about romance – you’ve already proven _that_. But if I had to guess, I think he just needs to bite the bullet and ask her out. _Without_ an audience, so even if it goes wrong they can still talk it out.”

“It’s not that simple!” she retorts. “If it was me, sure, I wouldn’t beat around the bush, but Sam’s just a big sweet dope, he needs to be eased into it.”

“Oh, so you never beat around the bush, then?”

“Never!”

“Especially not with Ransom?”

Mariner stops dancing. “So _that’s_ what this is about?”

“No, but–” Boimler’s never been good at realizing right away that he’s fucked up. “I’m just saying, it’s pretty tedious the way you always say you hate him then keep batting your eyes at him every time he’s in the room.”

“You’re _insane_!” Mariner says, probably a smidge too loud, because a few heads turn in her direction. For once in her life, she lowers her voice, because this is nobody’s business, least of all Boimler’s. “I said I thought he was hot _once,”_ she hisses. “I think lots of people are hot! D’Vana’s hot, Sam’s hot, you–” Nope, nope, not going to finish _that_ thought. “Look, I get that you’re jealous of the macho man who spends all his time on the bridge and gets to leap at the captain’s orders like a trained dolphin, but you don’t have to bring me into it.”

“I’m not jealous!” Boimler snaps, pasty cheeks flushing. “Forget I brought it up. The point is, it’s not healthy to push Rutherford and Tendi together like this.”

“Whatever.” Mariner brushes him off and walks to the railing overlooking the dance floor. “Gripe all you want, but we both saw them dancing. They’re getting on like a house on fire tonight. Everything’s going to work out just f– _Tendi, what are you doing?!_ ”

Below her, Tendi is currently sipping champagne and making polite conversation with Steve fucking Levy, the fourth-worst person on the entire ship, and someone who was _definitely_ not invited to this party. Rutherford is nowhere to be seen.

Tendi looks up and waves gaily to her. “Oh, hey Mariner!” she calls. “Levy here is teaching me tons of stuff I never heard in the academy! Did you know that tribbles are actually Romulan surveillance drones?”

It takes most of her willpower not to leap over the railing and squish Levy flat. “Where’s Rutherford? Weren’t you two dancing? You looked really good!”

There’s a hint of a blush on Tendi's face as she replies, “He wanted to stop! He said it was making his implant overheat, so he went to get a drink.”

She scans the ballroom, and sure enough, Rutherford is busy pouring himself a glass of wine. She looks closer. He’s holding the bottle at the precise minimum angle to keep the tiniest trickle of liquid flowing. At this rate, it could take him minutes to fill the glass. His brow is furrowed; his other hand is shaking. He gulps, and she recognizes it for what it is:

The gulp of a _coward._

And he had been doing so well! No, he had been doing _too_ well, and it freaked him out, and now he’s decided to remove chance from the equation and just straight-up shoot himself in the foot. It’s entirely in character, and entirely moronic.

“RUTHERFORD!” she bellows. “What are you doing over there? Don’t you know it’s rude to leave your dance partner by herself?”

Rutherford, startled, empties most the bottle onto the tablecloth and the remainder all over his shirt. He turns around to find the crowd staring at him. Then thirty-odd heads rotate as one and find Mariner and, down below her, Tendi. Okay, so maybe screaming across the room wasn’t the _best_ approach. But it’s worth it if it puts him back on track, right? She glances down at Tendi, who ought to be pleased – but no, she’s just staring up at Mariner in barely-concealed agony.

Rutherford licks his lips nervously and raises a shaking finger to his combadge. “What’s that, Commander Billups?” he says.

There’s no reply.

“Shaxs is drunk and trying to eject the warp core again?”

The silence is deafening.

“Don’t worry, sir, I’ll go talk him down. Gee, I hate to leave this swell party, but if it’s for the good of the ship...”

He turns on his heel and fucking legs it out of the holodeck. Mariner glances down again; Tendi is hiding underneath the stairs and chugging her wine like it’s water.

Boimler sidles up next to Mariner at the railing and murmurs, “You know, for someone who always claims her whole deal is cutting through the BS and getting straight to the action, you have a habit of making things way more complicated than they have to be.”

“Shut up,” she snarls, but he forges on: “You don’t just like drama, you _need_ it. And what’s worse, you drag your friends into the mess with you, not even sparing a thought for my– our feelings, or considering that we might get hurt. Not everything _has_ to be a big production, Beckett.”

This may the first time he’s ever called her by her first name outright, and that sucks. It sucks that he thinks now is the moment to bring it out. It sucks that he wields it like a hidden blade, deployed at the perfect moment to strike a fatal blow. It sucks _ass_ that apparently his instincts for guilting her are identical to her mom’s.

“Get out of my ballroom,” Mariner growls.

Dawn breaks over Boimler-head as he begins to understand that he has crossed a line or five. “It’s, um, it’s a holodeck–”

“I worked hard to create a strict ambiance and you are clashing with it! Begone!”

He stands there a second, evidently vacillating between impotent fury and genuine distress. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he refuses to move. His fingers clench, then relax, and his voice is low and controlled as he says, “If you keep trying to ‘help’ Rutherford and Tendi like this, you’ll only end up making fools out of them. You’ve already–”

His lip quivers and he breaks eye contact before turning on his heel and storming down the stairs. She doesn’t try to stop him – why would she? More than a few eyes from the crowd track his path across the dance floor and out the door, but they can fuck right off as far as Mariner is concerned. She and Boimler are always arguing, anyway, so it’s not like there’s any revelatory gossip to be had there.

She needs another drink.

Tendi intercepts her at the beverage table. “Are you, uh, okay? Did something happen between you and Boimler?”

“He got wound up for no reason and decided to be a little bitch about it,” Mariner grumbles, loosening her bowtie. “So, pretty much a normal evening.” Since champagne is definitely not going to cut it at this point, she pops open the bottle of Romulan ale she’s had stowed under the table, not particularly caring that it is, strictly speaking, contraband. At least Ransom is too distracted being harangued by the Zaldan ambassador to chew her out over it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” asks Tendi. Mariner grunts and lurches away. She wants some air –real air, not ersatz sea breeze– and this party is dead anyway. Tendi tags along, and when they reach the hall they find Rutherford there, wringing out his shirt and muttering, “–can go back in, just have to tell everybody it was a false alarm–"

He jerks to attention upon seeing them. “Oh, hey guys! It was just a false alarm. Shaxs, uh, fell asleep … or something. Hey, is Boimler okay? He just went right by me, looked pretty out of sorts.”

“Mariner and Boimler just had a little _difference of opinions,_ ” Tendi says, patting Mariner’s arm fondly. She’s using her Doctor Voice, all sweetness and light and calculated to help you ignore the laser scalpel currently carving away at your abdomen. Mariner catches her flashing Rutherford a knowing look.

“Aw jeez,” he says. “Do you want to… talk about it?”

“No!” Mariner snaps. It should be illegal for anyone to be this wholesome. It pisses her off. Leave it to Sam Rutherford and D’Vana Tendi to instantly sidestep the mountain of emotional baggage piling up between them so they can look after their friends. “Just … go back to the dance floor,” she sighs. “You were having a nice time, I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

They aren’t moving. Why aren’t they moving? “Maybe I should go talk to Boimler,” says Tendi.

Rutherford puts a hand on her shoulder. “No, I can do that. You still have reports to file, don’t you? You take care of those, and I’ll … see you after our shifts tomorrow.”

Tendi reaches up and rests her hand on Rutherford’s. “You sure?” Her eyes are wide and tender and nauseatingly sincere. He just nods solemnly, like he’s a captain about to go down with his ship.

Mariner is tempted to shout _Kiss her, you fool,_ because how’s that for “cutting through the BS”, Brad? But before she can string the words together, Tendi is already vanishing around the corner. Huh. The ale must be hitting hard if Mariner’s already slowing down this much.

“Shit, man,” she finds herself saying. “Sorry we messed up your groove so bad.”

“It’s okay,” he says vacantly. “It probably would’ve ended like this anyway.”

Mariner has heard of the sentiment _I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed,_ even if she has never experienced it directly – Carol Freeman usually hands out anger and disappointment in equal measure. But now, watching this technological teddy bear of a man turn his gaze from the woman he so clearly adores to stare down at her own increasingly-sloshed self, Mariner thinks she finally understands why that phrase often hits so hard.

“You should get to bed,” he tells her, and fuck, dude, it would have been kinder if he’d just knocked her out cold.

* * *

After that, things start to blur. She’s stumbling into the turbolift. Now she’s walking down a hallway when she thinks she hears her mom’s voice, so she throws herself into a supply closet rather than be seen and once again prove what a huge fucking embarrassment of a daughter she is. She waits there a long time, but no one ever comes.

Drama. Mariner doesn’t “need” drama. She just knows that sometimes life gets loud and chaotic, so to fight back you have to get loud and chaotic, too. Brad doesn’t even know what he’s talking about. He should try living through a war or two, _then_ he can talk about what is and isn’t “dramatic” … but the mental vaults containing her memories of the Dominion War are locked, welded shut, and festooned with caution tape, and even this wasted she’s not stupid enough to go knocking on those doors without good reason. She lurches to her feet and hauls herself homeward again.

It’s only when she gets back to her quarters that she remembers that her bunk is directly above Boimler’s. But, in her first stroke of good luck all night, his bed is still empty, the sheets pristine. She gratefully shucks off her jacket and crawls up the ladder, not even bothering to get under the covers, just waiting to drift off into unconsciousness.

Ultimately, Boimler arrives before sleep does. She can hear the clatter of his locker slamming shut, the rustle of his blanket, the little huff he always makes when he’s frustrated. It’s not like she’s pretending to be asleep, but neither of them speaks a word. They lie there like that for who knows how long, separated by just a few feet of vertical distance, their breathing ever so slightly out of sync. It would be so easy to reach down and take his hand. Or slap him in the face. She’s not sure which one would make her feel better.

In the end, she doesn’t do either. Beneath her, Brad remains priggishly inert. She almost feels like it all means something; like it speaks to a fundamental truth about their relationship. The solution is so close, it’s on the tip of her tongue. But the more she ponders, the less she understands, and when oblivion finally takes her, it comes as nothing but a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ransom can’t understand why the Zaldan ambassador hates him so much. Ever since she boarded the ship, he’s been nothing but polite to her...


End file.
